


Fancy a Cuppa?

by BeneGesseritWitch



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time Smut Fic, I'm Sorry, John Watson - Freeform, John loves tea, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Oral Sex, Pavlovian response, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Sherlock Loves John, Slash, Tea Kink, UST, Unreliable Narrator, Unresloved Sexual Tension, i think i need to work on the USt, sherlock makes sure john loves tea even more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneGesseritWitch/pseuds/BeneGesseritWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smutty little story about Sherlock, John, and tea. Short and sweet.</p><p>Edited loosely by author, neither beta'd nor brit picked. So any volunteers would be appreciated!<br/>This one shot may become slightly longer. </p><p>This was my first and only fan fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fancy a Cuppa?

**Author's Note:**

> 09/01/2016- briefly edited for punctuation, grammer, and spelling, but still not officially beta'd. still playing around with the idea of adding more chapters but i'm not sure yet. if you read it and liked it, then let me know!

"I say let the world go to hell, but i should always have my tea" ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

 

As was the usual modus operandi for evenings in the flat on Baker Street when a case was not on, Sherlock Holmes was in repose on the couch, fingers steepled prayer like underneath his chin, and eyes closed as if in sleep. His brain raced on at a million miles and hour as it cataloged the sounds and smells of the flat. John Watson had just come home from another tedious shift from the clinic. Faint traces of bile and blood (2 separate patients, a child and one elderly gentleman) wafted around him as he walked through the door, a sigh of exhaustion (didn't sleep well night before, despite date with Carolyn? Christina? ending prematurely) disturbed the silence of the living room as he bypassed the kitchen, and in it the lifeblood of British society, the tea kettle, and proceeded straight away to his room upstairs to strip and wash the day off.

Dr. John Watson. His Friend. John Watson. John.

Sherlock accessed image after image of John, HIS John in his mind palace, and allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the feelings of arousal that those images caused course through him. Just for a little while, just this one time. The way John smiled when he was truly angry. The way he sipped his tea abstractedly when he read his stupidly boring crime novels. How his heavy panting after a particularly thrilling chase down a back alley had caused Sherlock to shift minutely and give thanks that the weather still allowed him to wear his Belstaff, because John's blue eyes were blown wide with adrenaline, and he smelled of carbide, musk, and excitement.

Dr. John Watson. His Friend. John Watson. John.

The pipes upstairs clattered, clanged, and finally gave one last shudder before silence signaled that John was done. He was probably toweling himself off right now, thin rivulets of water were, this very moment, streaming down his face, down the back of neck, down down down his back , winding their way over warmed skin, finding their way further down. Some even a lucky few might find themselves traveling down a dark and humid crevasse, down down down slowly, tantalizingly one or two reached john's...

"Bollocks!"

Sherlock choked on his own spit as John's shout jerked him out his mind palace. He opened his eyes, swung his legs to the floor, sat up, and tried to hide the fact of his arousal with a carefully placed magazine. John thundered down the stairs hair still wet, wearing a pair of track bottoms and thin plain white shirt. The anger of the righteous burned in his eyes as he confronted his plain the arse flatmate about the pile of shredded cloth in his hand.

"Sherlock you knob! What did I tell you about my jumpers?!"

Sherlock glanced at the pile of what used to be John's third best jumper and rolled his eyes.

"It was an affront to sheep the world over John. They would have been heartbroken had they known what acts of atrociousness their yarn was subjected to. i did them a kindness"

John closed his eyes, breathed in and exhaled slowly. He repeated that twice more. Sherlock smirked. John wasn't truly angry. This whole scenario was old hat by now. Also, that jumper actually was hideous. 

John dropped the pitiful remains of the gift from his last (now ex) girlfriend on to the coffee table and went to sit down heavily in his char, exhaustion from the day catching up with him after the ebb of anger left him. He placed a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes before dragging it down over his nose and mouth. He was just so bloody tired as it was. The ruined jumper was just the icing on this shite of a day.

Sherlock felt a momentary twinge of regret. 

"Fancy a cuppa?"

John's eyes snapped open. His head shot up.

"You offering?"

Without saying another word, and with only minimal shuffling of his dressing gown required, Sherlock rose up gracefully and padded barefoot to the kitchen to click on the kettle. 

John sat dumbstruck in his chair. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock made him tea, and that included when it was drugged. Come to think of it, he's pretty sure he's lost a wednesday in there somehow after one such momentous occasion, but he couldn't be sure.

While Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, John couldn't help but appreciate the view. Those moments were rare ones when your best friend was one of the most observant men in the world. His nibs was posh git, but no matter what he wore, be it suit or dressing gown, he exuded confidence and strength. John was just comfortable enough with himself to admit that he liked that. Only just though. 

Soon enough the kettle clicked off, the water was poured into waiting mugs, the cream added to both and sugar added to the other, and the tea steeped. Sherlock returned, handed John his cuppa, and plopped down on his own chair, barely just managing to not spill a drop. John blew a cooling breath over the rim of his cup and sipped cautiously before closing his eyes in bliss. Sherlock watched his John's lips, distracted by the urge to taste the spot just...there, at the philtrum. John hummed in appreciation, his shoulders loosened, his tense spine softened, and his legs fell into a more open position. The liquid warmth did what it did best, soothed and relaxed. 

"Thank you" he said, eyes still closed. It was always good form to praise Sherlock when he did something thoughtful.

Sherlock murmured a soft response that was more rumble than word. John's prick twitched in interest at the sound, and as he tried not to tense up, he hoped that he was lucky enough to have it go unnoticed by the other occupant in the room.

Unfortunately, John, as his granddad was heard to say now and again, was not born under a lucky star.

Sherlock, who had been covertly trying to visually trace the outline of John's cock through his track pants (John was not wearing pants. Why was he not wearing pants? Was it Christmas?) was in prime position to see that betraying movement. His own, carelessly neglected prick throbbed in sympathy. With John's eyes still closed, Sherlock felt free to look his fill with only a modicum of guilt. This was his best friend he was perving on, though if he were completely honest with himself, he didn't feel that guilty.

"John" Sherlock said softly

John closed his legs opened his eyes.

"Sherlock" John replied, just as soft. 

It was just past twilight outside, and with just a small lamp in the corner giving off a rosy glow, there seemed to be a sense of seclusion, of intimacy in the flat. Neither one could make out fine details of the other and that seemed to suit them just fine. 

Sherlock bit his lip, opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, then tried again.

Care to play a little game?

John shifted a bit, sitting a tad straighter.

"I am not, I repeat i am NOT, going to play bloody operation with you Sherlock".

"Ah, no" Sherlock smiled a soft private smile. "Not what i was suggesting. More like...a bet. You Do enjoy the occasional flutter, don't you Captain?"

John shifted again, Sherlock speaking in that low, slow way shot right to the core of him, started a tingle, that while okay now, would evolve into something else if left unchecked.

His blood thrummed in his veins. His breathing became only slightly heavy. 

Throwing caution to the wind John replied.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Merely this, I bet that i can make you enjoy tea more so than you already do at present. If I win, You make ALL the tea from now on, whenever i demand it. If I fail in my endeavor, then i shall make ALL the tea for a period of two weeks, because let's be honest here, that's all I really will care to do".

John rolled his eyes and smiled, that little bit of levity curbing the flow of blood to his southern parts.

"Sherlock, I am British. we are practically born with an inherent love of tea. Our enjoyment of it is nearly encoded into our DNA".

Sherlock sat forward very precisely, never once breaking eye contact with the man across from him. John's breath stuttered and he licked his lips. 

"Do you accept?" 

For a moment John was lost. He knew he stood on the razor's edge of something. He could sense the change in the air. Again, he licked his lips, nervous habit that. He wasn't a consulting detective but he wasn't as stupid as Sherlock often shouted that he was. Sherlock's changeling eyes may have been shrouded in the lengthening shadows of the flat, but John could see the blood that caused his carotid to pulse. Increased blood flow then. Was he turned on? Those already lush lips appeared to plump right before his eyes. A quick glance down (which John would later deny he made) showed that the beginning stages of full on arousal had started to ruin the line of Sherlock's pajama bottoms. That was last bit to knock john off the edge. 

With a brief swallow he nodded his consent, and said,

"Do your best"

"Oh, I would do nothing less, John" he purred.

Slowly Sherlock sank to the floor on his knees, and with his cup of still warmed tea in his hand, he kneeled right between John's legs which had spread a bit to allow him room.

John took a nervous sip of his own cup while images of fantasies past flashed before his eyes. How many times had he wanked while thinking of Sherlock just like this? Loads.  
He almost giggled at unintentional pun.

Sherlock took a long sip of tea, and held it in his mouth, rolled it around over his tongue and let the warmth pervade everywhere. He placed his large hands on John's thighs, and firmly, but gently spread them open. John inhaled quickly and held his breath, as Sherlock slid his hands up and down compact but muscular thighs. His thumbs JUST grazing right under john's prick then sliding back down to his knees. He repeated this move a few times, swallowed his mouthful of tea, then softly commanded John to raise his hips up.

John, always one to obey a direct order, did so. He was hard, but Sherlock managed to hook his fingers in the waistband of his track pants and pull them down and off completely without any unnecessary awkwardness. John's slightly larger than average prick bobbed and then stood proudly. Sherlock was transfixed. For a moment he forgot what the original goal was. He was too caught up in the musky smell of John. 

"Ahem" John coughed and cocked his eyebrow.

"Yeah, i've got a large nob. But you looking at it isn't going to make me love tea more than I already do...soooo" he trailed off.

Sherlock mentally gave himself a shake. "Quite correct, John".

He took another long pull of tea, and once again let the liquid warmth fill up his mouth. John cocked his head. His brain was screaming at him that "OH HOLY SHIT HE'S GOING TO SUCK ME!"

Sherlock leaned forward, swallowed his mouthful, then opened his lips on the flushed red head of John's prick and gently sucked. 

John gasped, groaned, and nearly doubled over. Sherlock's mouth was hot. Hotter than he expected, and wet. so fucking wet. Sherlocked hummed in response, trying to catalog all the different flavors of John as he ran his tongue over slit and frenulum. John instinctively rocked his hips up, seeking more friction. Sherlock pulled off with an obscene pop, shot John a warning glance, and firmed his grip on John's thighs to hold him down.

"Calm yourself, Captain" he uttered darkly.

"Jesus" John muttered he tried to get his breathing back under control.

Sherlock to that moment to take another sip, relishing in the taste of his slightly sweet brew juxtaposed with the bitter essence that was purely John. He groaned and palmed his self, trying to get a little relief.

He lowered his head and this time slipped his mouth more than halfway down the length of John's painfully hard cock. He sucked, and laved, and hummed his approval focusing his attention to every pulse and twitch of John Watson. 

John moaned as his hips spasmed in controlled microbursts of motion. This wouldn't do. Sherlock wanted him beyond reason, and gagging for it. He pulled off, and John groaned in frustration.

"Jesus Sherlock you are fucking killing me!"

"Patience is a virtue, John. All good things to those wait" Sherlock brought his cup to his lips, took one last sip, and while the last of the warm tea was still in his mouth, he slid John's cock right between his lips into the liquid warmth. John sat forward, dropped his own cup of tea over the side of the chair (he forgot he was holding it, jesus! how could he forget he was holding it!?) and plunged both hands into the Sherlock's soft curls. Sherlocked purred deep in throat and increased suction as best he could while a mixture of tea and spit dribbled out the corners of his mouth. He had to forcibly hold John's thighs down which only seemed to spur John on to thrust harder. That in turn ratcheted up Sherlock's arousal. A fresh burst of bitter precome washed across his tongue and he instinctively swallowed. John moaned and grasped Sherlock's head just a bit harder.

"Close. S'close Sh'lock nnnnngh"

Sherlock managed to take a little bit more, felt the blunt tip of John's cock nudging back of his throat. He breathed through his nose then swallowed.

John gasped as Sherlock ran his hands down to cup John's bollocks, then teasingly ran his fingers around and underneath them, pressing firmly on his perineum before traveling lower. 

Just as he stuck one long forefinger on rim of John's puckered hole, John arched his back.

"FUCK! Gonna..Sher..."

Sherlock's hands moved in the blink of an eye and gripped John's arse in his palms, and held him so he couldn't pull out, He was rewarded as John came hard and hot down his abused throat, stunned into non-verbal vowel sounds.

Sherlock sucked and hummed until the last twitch of John's prick subsided, and right before pleasure turned into discomfort from sensitivity. Gently he let John's softening cock slip from his mouth, and Sherlock gingerly sat back on his heels. His own aching erection making itself angrily known and throbbing from neglect. 

John sat in his chair, and tried to regain his breath. He eyes were still closed.

He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it before trying again.

Sherlock braced himself for the sexual identity crisis that would surely follow.

John opened his eyes and stared straight into Sherlock's.

"That. Was. Amazing."

Sherlock blinked 9 times times in rapid succession. Thanks to all the blood that had congregated in his cock his brain was a little deprived so it took him a few extra seconds to process what John had just said.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes, really. it was Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic" John breathed.  
"I don't know if it was enough to change-" he trailed off as sherlock rose from his knees and climbed up to straddle john's lap. 

He leaned forward, and with his lips just barely touching the shell of John's ear growled throatily "Fancy a cuppa?"

John, despite still coming down from a mind blowing oragsm felt his prick pulse with interest.

"Oh God!" he groaned. "You won the bet!"

Sherlock laughed and in turn accidentally rubbed his throbbing erection, still clothed but sporting a massive wet spot, against the soft skin of John's stomach. His laugh turned into a pitiful moan.

It was John's turn to laugh as he reached up and grabbed two handfuls of that previously off limits plush as hell arse. Guiding Sherlock's hips up, John slouched a bit in his chair, and brought Sherlock's prick to mouth level, where he proceeded to go about making that wet spot larger. Sherlock groaned in frustration.

"John. I swear to god if you don't do something soon Scotland Yard will never find your body"

Dr. John Watson, John Watson. His John. Laughed in between open mouthed kisses against Sherlock's flushed prick and said,

"Just give me a mo, Sherlock, I need to make a cuppa".

 

The End

 

“A cup of tea would restore my normality."  
-Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Screenplay  
― Douglas Adams


End file.
